


Snow Angels

by NovaCherryCola



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Gift Fic, im just full of hubris, im so unbelievably late, why am i. how did i become like this. w
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 17:18:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17370167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaCherryCola/pseuds/NovaCherryCola
Summary: Elain's been cooped up for weeks on end during a winter snow storm. When the fall relents, a certain Illyrian takes it upon himself to help her stretch her legs.A very late gift for Avenrebekah on tumblr





	Snow Angels

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to apologize to rosehallshadowsinger and avenrebekah for the unbelievable lateness. Even I am astonished at my absolute dumbassery. Thanks mango for betaing this tho.

The night court was covered in snow. A glittering white storm had passed over it, and had continued to pass over it, for weeks on end. Sometimes there was reprieve, or it slowed to a veritable drizzle, but for many days the residents of the court had had to seek shelter indoors, cooped up with fires and family, if they had indeed been trapped with them. Fae who could winnow were lucky, and they had been popping in and out of homes to stock up supplies and check in on residents where they could, but Elain was bored. 

Tending to the small potted plants inside of her apartment could only occupy so much of her time, and she felt she had read enough to last her a lifetime- she had never been one to sit idle for too long. Likewise, baking and painting and sewing had stopped staving off her cabin fever after the first week. 

So when the snow finally abates, and Azriel appears in a slow gathering of shadow in her living room, Elain nearly sobs in relief. He had been, quite possibly, the only thing stopping her from going stark-raving mad, despite him disappearing for hours at a time to tend to the other denizens of Velaris. 

She would have thought he was simply stopping by for his daily-check in (which would often only last a few minutes at most, or a few curt words if he was particularly busy), had she not heard the snow stop falling in the small hours of the morning. Elain had woken to the pressing sound of nothingness, and rushed to her door, half determined to dig herself out with her bare hands if needed. 

Now, Elain sat, mittened hands held firmly in her lap, back straight in her stiflingly warm attire. Azriel slowly looks her up and down, an eyebrow quirking.

“Good morning, Elain.” He says, simply, and Elain is not an impatient person by any margin but she just might tackle him to get out.

“Good morning Azriel. I hope you slept well. Has the snow stopped falling?” She asks instead, powering through the necessary pleasantries.

“I’m not sure if you’d take no for an answer.” Azriel almost looks amused. He takes a careful step forward, his eyes locked on hers, and she swears she sees his throat bob as he extends a hand. “Would you like to- that is-”

“Please.” Elain interrupts, breathlessly. Her face heats at the sound of her own outburst. “I mean, yes, please. I would like that, very much.”

Azriel nods, slowly, his eyes dark on hers, and Elain nods back. She shouldn’t have nodded, perhaps, but her mind is both racing and impossibly slow, and her skin is hot where Azriel’s gaze alights. Cabin fever, finally here for her soul.

Elain stands, restless hands held prim and proper, her hood heavy on her back. The cloak weighs her down, a present from Feyre in charming green. In her apartment, the layers upon layers she wears are stifling, but she's sure she'll be grateful for them when she is finally, blessedly, free. 

Azriel raises a bent arm, and one of his brows twitches up at the action, as if even he is incredulous at the modesty of it- the humanity, even. 

“Here.” He offers her a small smile, the picture of a perfect gentleman in his Illyrian Leathers and glinting Syphons, wings tucked primly behind him. 

Elain delicately tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling her gown sway with her. She doesn’t dare meet his eyes, but gently thanks him before they are swallowed up by darkness.

It lasts less than a blink, as they move through the fabric of the world, and when it is done Elain feels the world pitched sideways, painted in white. A firm hand darts around her waist, yanking her right-ways up, Elain’s feet sliding along the ice beneath her, scrabbling for purchase. She finds it when she is pulled flush against something- something hard. 

Except, no- not something- someone; she realises this when she peels her face away from a scaled chest to peer into soft hazel eyes. Elain squeaks.

Azriel silently allows her to extricate herself from the impromptu embrace, and kindly doesn’t laugh when she continues to slip along the frozen path in her haste. He simply holds her arms in an iron grasp, letting her get her bearings.

“You should be more careful.” He murmurs. Azriel’s cheeks are tinged with red- probably a product of the cold, she thinks- and as she meets his gaze Elain finds his eyes are positively shining. 

Elain nods, her voice having run away from her. 

Azriel clears his throat, looking somewhere to his left. Elain blinks, finally feeling the bite of winter cold and shivering. She looks around at the snow-laden city, seeing it completely transformed, alien. The vague form of her apartment is smothered by mounds of snow behind her, and, not for the first time, Elain mourns the garden she had not been able to save. There were limits to Rhys’ mastery of his Court, after all.

Azriel’s voice shakes her out of her reverie, the rumbling, warm tones shocking her in their proximity. “Shall we?” He tosses a look carelessly over his shoulder, to the cityscape ahead of them.

“Shall.. Oh! Um, if it’s not too much trouble.” Elain blinks demurely up at him, eyes wide. “I’m sure you have other places to be…”

“Not at all.” Azriel assures her. He finally releases her arms, as if just having realised he was still holding onto her. He swallows again before proffering up his arm, and Elain barely hesitates before taking it.

Elain banishes the thought of Grayson doing the same while Azriel guides her through the ice-laden city, their breath curling into steam and drifting away like clouds on the wind. Children squeal and run, kicking up wet clumps as they sprint. Some Low Fae are forming balls of snow and lobbing them at each other, and they explode into slushy dust on impact.

“I’ve never played in the snow before.” Elain offers suddenly. Azriel looks at her from the corner of his eye as she continues. “When we had money, it was too… unbecoming. Too dangerous, not proper. And then, after, it was only a risk. Winter, the killing force, which destroyed what I grew and took Feyre’s game, that made our father grow worse...” She glances at Azriel, and huffs a laugh. “Sorry, I don’t think I know what I was trying to say.”

“I do.” 

Elain stares, blinking up at the man- the male, rather. For maybe the first time, she sees him as he is. Handsomely cut, but tangible. Flesh and blood beneath her fingers where dreams and smoke had so often nestled. She tilts her head to get a better view of his face, her free hand coming up dreamily to his jaw. Who holds their breath when she feels contact under her gloves? Both? Neither? It’s hard to tell when she’s slipping out of reality. A hand on top of hers, and she is grounded in flesh and blood again, the crisp scent of leather and Jasmine in her nose. 

Azriel’s thumb strokes a soothing pattern over her glove. His eyes are so expressive, his lips never more enticing. Elain rips her hand away, face a million degrees.

“Sorry! Sorry, sorry!”

“It’s okay.”

Azriel tugs her along to a less busy area, one where they are afforded more privacy, and Elain gulps. Her mind races as Azriel breaks their contact, thoughts of improper etiquette and roguish Illyrians clouding her mind while said Illyrian ducks low to the ground. Just what had she gotten herself into?, she wonders mournfully as he straightens and steps back. 

“Catch.” He calls. Elain scrambles as something is thrown her way, letting out a positively mortifying noise and raising her hands. A hard, round object falls into them, spraying ice on impact. 

She blinks down at a snowball. 

“Now throw it at me.” Azriel continues, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “It won’t hurt me, I’ve spent enough years with the Illyrian pri- I mean, gentlemen- to be able to take it.”

“Are you quite sure?” Elain calls. At his affirmative answer, she raises it over her shoulder, squeaks when she throws as gently as she can. 

Despite her efforts, the whole Fae-strength thing means it does, of course, burst into a million pieces when it hits Azriel’s chest. For a soul-wrenching second, Elain is worried, terrified she’s down something wrong. Then Azriel grins up at her, and Elain’s worry turns to euphoria. She claps in delight, returning his smile. 

Something catches her eye and she giggles, trying to smother her laughter with a hand but doing no good as she finally devolves into full laughter, clutching at her corset. With as much grace as she can muster, she raises a trembling finger to Azriel’s nose, upon which a piece of snow had seated itself.

Elain laughs, forgetting politeness. A heavy thud sounds. She feels it, a weighty impact on her leg, through her layers of skirts and tights. She looks down to find white sprayed along her dress, and looks up to find Azriel smirking. A beat of silence. Elain dives for the snow beneath her, haphazardly packing it into a projectile, is hit with cold and wet and shrieks when it drips down her neck. Throws her own ball with uncanny precision and nails Azriel’s shoulder. 

Elain is exhilarated, making and chucking lumps -because they weren’t neat enough to be classed as balls, and this sloppiness, too, thrills her- of snow as fast as she can, dancing out of the way of answering fire, taunting and giggling and letting out high-pitched noises of nope when she is hit. Azriel is steadfastly the better combatant, but she won’t go down without a fight. 

He hides behind a frozen wall, and Elain gathers all the snow she can into her hood, and holds the wobbling mass in her arms as she sprints to him before he can stop her. She darts around the side, finding the shape of a person and dumping all the snow she can on it before it tackles her to the ground, limbs flying and tangling. 

They hit the cold together, the wind knocked out of Elain’s lungs. She pants up at Azriel’s face, watching as his expression turns from playful to mortified above her. Their legs are tangled, his arms framing her, her hands clutching at his waist and his wings flared. 

“Sh-shit, sorry.” He rises on his elbows, trying to find purchase and slipping closer to her in the process. His cheeks are definitely flaming, his breath fanning her face. 

Elain feels her own face aflame, and she shivers as the cold soaks into her garments, but the excitement has not worn off quite yet.

Her lips brush the corner of his mouth. Azriel freezes, and Elain’s mind catches up to her and she screams internally.

“Thank you.” She says, instead of screaming externally.

He looks at her- really looks at her. It makes Elain want to squirm and hide as his gaze rakes over her face. It makes a small part of her want to preen and parade, to be the beautiful maiden that everyone in her life had so craved her to be. She fears he finds none. She hopes that he find none. 

He slowly, ever so slowly, lowers himself, eyes skating over Elain’s face even as her eyes become hooded. Her heart is racing, and she hears his racing, too. He shudders, perhaps with the exertion of leaning over her.

“Is this okay?” He murmurs. Elain can feel the movement on her mouth.

If she had thought, she would have said no. Would have screamed and pushed him off her, and refused to see him for the next month. 

She doesn't think. She kisses him.

It's nothing grand, but Azriel's mouth is warm on hers and he makes a small noise of surprise in the back of his throat that flutters into the bottom of Elain's stomach. His lips are soft, and as they part they follow hers as if unconsciously. 

Elain opens her eyes and finds Azriel, so proud and strong, with his head bowed and his brows furrowed, chest heaving and eyes closed. His wings block off the outside world until it is only them, the beginning and the end, and her heart might burst at the thought of it. He breathes her name and she forgets impropriety and kisses him again. 

This time there's a hunger in it, one she didn't know she could have, and it is Azriel who tears himself away.

“This is… not the way I would have hoped to do this.” He admits quietly. He trembles, though now Elain can tell it's with restraint. 

“It's okay.” She runs a hand up his chest, to feel his pounding heart beat. “I… we can be proper… later.”

Elain flicks her gaze up to his, and hopes Azriel can parse what she means. That in that moment, she didn't want what anyone else could offer, what Grayson had offered: modesty and rules, restraint and spending winter bundled up watching the outside world. She wanted snowball fights and laying in slush with a warm body to keep her company, who wouldn’t pity her for the world.

Azriel presses a hand over hers, body flush against her in a way that makes Elain fill with heat.

“Elain Archeron, if you would allow me I would court you to a wonderful degree.” 

Elain smiles and agrees.

Then she throws a handful of slush into his face and squeals when he winnows them into a snowbank. Her dress is drenched by the end of it, and their teeth chatter with the cold, but it's nothing a warm cup of Elain's tea won't fix.


End file.
